Pretty in Pink - Part 12.5
Summary: Elouise learns about John Lark.
Pairing: August and plus size OFC
Word count: 1,300+
A/N - This is a completely self indulgent little series based on a day dream fantasy of mine that I think about entirely too often.
This is just a half chapter. It continues right after Part 12. And it’s the second to last chapter of the entire series, y’all. It’s almost finished! 🥺
Thank you to my darling @agniavateira for absolutely everything!
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 12.5
“I need to talk to you about Agent August Walker.”
My stomach dropped. “Why? Did something happen?”
“Miss Myers, I think we should go in and continue this conversation.”
“No. Tell me what happened.”
She huffed out a breath. “I will. But I need something from you first.”
“Tell me what you know about John Lark.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anyone named John Lark.”
“It’s imperative that you think before you answer.”
I couldn’t think of anything other than August. “I’m sorry but I don’t know anyone by that name,” I said. “Please, just tell me what’s going on.”
“I think we need to go in and continue this conversation.” She nodded her head towards my house. “May I?”
Something told me no, that I shouldn’t let her in. Some voice that sounded an awful lot like August. But she was CIA. She had information that I needed and I had no real reason to tell her no. So I invited her in, against the screaming of my instincts. We sat at my dining table and I knew I should have offered her something to drink but that same voice reminded me it wasn’t a social visit. Pay attention, it said. Listen closely.
“Did something happen to August?” I asked again.
“I’m afraid so,” Agent Woll said. “He’s missing.”
I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. “I’m sorry, what?”
“He’s missing,” she repeated calmly. “He was in a helicopter that went down in Kashmir, India. We’re searching the wreckage but so far no body has been found.”
“Does that…does that mean he survived?”
“We’re not ruling out any possibilities at this point.”
“So you -” I covered my mouth with my hand. I felt sick. “You don’t know if he’s alive or…” I couldn’t say it.
“Right now it’s unclear,” she said. “That’s why I’m here with you. If Agent Walker survived, what you know of John Lark could help us locate him. Especially if he’s somewhere with a head injury or memory loss and unable to communicate to us that he needs assistance.”
I couldn’t think. The only thing running through my mind was, August is missing. August is missing. August is missing. My throat tightened and grew sore as I held back tears. I shook my head. “I’m sorry but I don’t…” My voice cracked. “I don’t know anything about him. August never mentioned that name.”
“Have you seen it anywhere? Written down on something in his house? Maybe in his home office?”
“I understand that this is difficult to hear and that you must be very scared and overwhelmed right now. But if there’s anything you can think of - anything at all - August would want you to tell us. No matter how small,” she said. She reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and pulled out an envelope, then handed it to me. “This might help.”
My hands shook as I opened the envelope and took out the paper inside. My heart ached when I saw August’s handwriting.
If you’re reading this, I’m either missing, dead, or assumed dead. I hope you never read it. I hope you never have to worry about my safety or be notified of my death. But that’s the nature of my job.
However, should anything happen, I give you full permission to speak freely with any and all agents in order to aid them in their investigations to find me and/or my fellow agents. I understand you may not know anything pertinent to their investigations but I urge you to comply with their requests. Not just for my own safety but for that of others.
I love you, Ellie. I don’t say it enough but I don’t think I ever could.
I didn’t understand what I was reading. It didn’t make sense. It was August’s handwriting but they weren’t his words. He never told me he loved me. I knew he did but he never said it. The first time he did wouldn’t be in a letter. And he didn’t call me Ellie. Not unless he was teasing me. So why?
“Miss Myers,” Agent Woll said, calling my attention back to her. “Can you think of anything?”
I lowered the letter and almost handed it back to her but stopped. August wouldn’t say those things and he knew that I would know that. It felt like he was trying to warn me. And if that’s what he was doing, then he didn’t trust the people who would deliver the letter. Which meant that I shouldn’t, either.
“I’m sorry. I can’t think. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Agent Walker was assigned to assist a team in tracking down a terrorist. The team failed and it was thought that the terrorist was killed by a member of separate agency. But It was more complicated than that,” she said. “The terrorist they were looking for was John Lark.”
“Why would August have talked to me about a terrorist?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“What do you know about Walker’s job?”
“Very little.” She raised her eyebrow at me, an indication to go on. “I know he’s an agent with the CIA. That’s all.”
“You never asked?”
“I didn’t need to. I trust him.”
“So you don’t know what division he worked for?” she asked. I shook my head. “August Walker was an assassin.”
I felt an immediate pressure against my chest. “What?”
“An assassin. Top-level. Our director’s number one.” Her eyes flicked across my face. “You never knew?”
I struggled to breathe. “No.”
“What did he tell you he did?”
“You were together for how long and you never asked? You slept with a killer, Miss Myers. A man who never had qualms about getting his hands dirty. The more violent the kill, the better.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. “Stop,” I said. “August wouldn’t… That’s not who he is.”
“It is. It was,” she said. “I’ve seen him in action. No one has ever enjoyed their job more thoroughly than Agent Walker.”
“What does that have to do with a terrorist? What does that have to do with him going missing?” I asked, tears flooding my eyes.
“According to the agents who were assigned to the mission with Agent Walker, he confessed to them that he is John Lark. He’s been operating under the alias for months. He fooled us just like he fooled you.”
“No. No, I don’t believe you,” I said. My body was instantly wracked with violent sobs.
She reached out and put her hand on mine. “I’m sorry, Miss Myers but it’s the truth.”
I shook her hand away. “Get out of my house!”
She tilted her head. “Excuse me?”
“Get out of my house!” I repeated, shouting through my sobbing.
She stood and smoothed out her blazer. “You understand how this appears. Correct?” she asked, looking down at me. “Your boyfriend organized and almost executed a plan to detonate two bombs at a medical base in India. He was going to murder hundreds of people. Your refusal to assist in our search of him makes it look like you were involved. Is that what you want? To look like you are aiding a terrorist?”
“He is not a terrorist! He is not that person. He would never do that. You’re wrong!”
“Miss Myers, I think the truth is, you simply had no clue who you were dating,” she said. “I want you to think about the situation seriously. I’ll be contacting you in a few days.”
My anger carried me through seeing her out of my house and locking the door behind her. But once she was gone, I only managed to take a few steps away from the door before I collapsed in a heap on the floor. Devastated didn’t begin to explain how I felt. It was as if I was so far beyond it that there wasn’t a word. It was just pain and then a void.
Inhale, Exhale (in a moment). Geralt x Reader. He said he would be back in just a moment. He said that it was nothing. He lied. No smut, no plot, just an anxious moment while you wait for him.
Listen. Count your breaths. One. Two. Three. He has to come back. He has to. One. Two. He said don’t worry. He said it’s nothing. He lied. Three. Rain is falling and it sounds like there are words beneath its pitter-patter; count the raindrops and maybe it’ll busy your thoughts.
Consider his eyes, gold and nearly glowing though it must’ve been the firelight. Consider his sharp, sharp teeth and how he smiled just a little to himself when he woke with morning dew clinging to his hair. Had he smiled before then? Of course he did, all men smile and he is a man despite his protestations, and when he saw the crescent bruises on your flesh he was torn for just a moment between shame and pride.
Pride won out and he smiled, he did; it was small and hidden in a smirk but it was there. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? It’s so hard to remember with the rain and the wind and the maybes seeded in his stay right here.
Every shadow could be his, or it could be some creature come to carry you away; these woods are dark and deep and sometimes stories aren’t just stories. Sometimes the trees watch and move and breathe. They remember, and they bury the paths. They lower branches to pluck men’s eyes; they whisper to the nasty creaking rasping beasts that look like trees but they are not.
He will come back. He will. The fire is out and the night is heavy but he sees more than he should and he can hear you. Smell you. He knows when you’re afraid because the smell of sweat curls into his nose and he finds you acrid. Bitter. Reeking of alliums and steel, copper, fetid earth. He will come back; he will gather you to him and never mind the blood. You can’t see it in the black of his clothes, and anyway the rain will wash it out.
The fire’s gone out, but huddle close to feel its fading warmth. Don’t think about the way these woods swallow men whole. Don’t think about the candles guttering at the edge of the path, or the little bones strewn all around; don’t think about it. Don’t. Just keep counting. He is coming, he is coming, he will be here. Just be patient. He’s fine. You’re fine. He’ll draw fire from the air and make a merry blaze; in the planes of his face will be shadows of pain, to be brushed away by the next flicker of firelight.
He’ll let you pluck the thorns that he can’t reach, buried high on his back and every tug makes him hold in a breath. He’s so strong, so strong; you won’t see him suffering. In between the raindrops, hear the sounds he doesn’t make. He says he isn’t human but he lies. He feels his pain the same as any man. He has two lungs, a heart, a stomach; he has all the messy innards of a man and if he’s changed it’s merely new tack on an old horse.
The rain is not a whisper or a conversation now; it is a deluge, a scream that echoes and reverberates and all around is water. It’s in your ears, your eyes, your throat; it is everywhere and everything and still you wait for him, for the warm and solid bulk of his body and the place between his shirt and skin where he’ll tuck you close to him.
Listen. These woods are dangerous and deep but he has kept you safe and in a day or two you’ll reach the other side; there is nothing here he cannot overcome. Tell yourself that as you shiver and cringe. Think of the way he’ll feel beneath your hands, marble-hard and steaming by the fire; even tired and wounded, he is strength and safety, an impenetrable fortress. He has to be. In a moment he’ll be here; you’ll turn and see those golden eyes before you see the rest of him. In a moment he’ll reach for you and say I’m here, I’m here; in a moment he will
Silence. Even the storm seems to hold its breath; across the clearing, something— someone— pushes through the tangled underbrush and